strength
by ace-of-trumps
Summary: in which Sanada and Yukimura meet for dinner, and a few issues between them are aired.


**strength**   
sanada genichirou + yukimura seiichi 

1. I've never wanted two fictional people to get together so badly in my _life_.   
2. there needs to be more official / canon material on Rikkai.   
3. and more English fic too. there's so few. hearts to those writers who do indulge in this pairing! ^^   
4. in the meantime, this fic is in university, rambles a lot, and has no real point. 

* * *

_ if you're having the same thoughts as I am   
right now, run to me   
-- chemistry, 'riptide' _

  
Shadow long like a drawn sword on the pavement, sharp-edged silhouette against the evening sky; Sanada is heading for dinner at Yukimura's flat. Sunset cuts the world into a thousand slices, painting surfaces hot with bright orange, washing the shade beneath trees and cars pitch black, but Sanada doesn't stop to look. Sanada is all about direction; once he marks a spot, he doesn't stop till he gets there. Anyway, it isn't far to where Yukimura stays now, and his cargo, two boys' worth of cooked rice in a carrier, will still be hot by the time he gets there. 

He's the official rice-maker now. When university first started, and Yukimura moved to his own flat, Sanada had appeared on Yukimura's doorstep on the first night of term with an armful of groceries and said, bluntly, "Making dinner." But neither of them ate very much of the meal: Sanada sat there with an invisible thundercloud thickening over his head until he felt compelled to look up, drawn by the sudden hush that always seemed to precede Yukimura's soft voice. 

"Ni.. It's very kind of you, but you can't cook with all the good intention in the world," Yukimura had said, hiding his face by looking downward, smile lost in the shadows cast by soft waves of black hair. 

And Sanada had shrugged, simply, and replied, "Fine, I won't try any more." 

No, that hadn't been entirely true. Sanada's breath puffs out, warm between statue-still lips. If it had come from anyone else, he would have taken the words as a challenge, and by now he would probably be the best damn cook in Rikkai University. It's just that he knows what Yukimura really wants to say; because, of course, Yukimura knows what he really meant to do. So now Yukimura cooks, and Sanada brings the rice; and despite the fact that they're now doing different courses in university, they keep in touch. 

He can tell which key on his busy keychain fits the front door lock of the block by touch, now. Sometimes he feels the shape of it when he dreams, and in the dream he starts wandering, looking for a door to unlock. He doesn't understand his dreams, but neither does he believe in them. Important things must bear solid shape, for Sanada. Handle of a tennis racquet, hilt of a sword, a key in his hand, the firm handshake of an opponent, a door opening and a pair of slippers waiting for him when he enters the flat. He kicks off his shoes, puts the rice on the table, looks warily at the pots and pans simmering on the stove before declaring a truce and moving away from them. No sign of Yukimura. He pauses, standing in front of the dark hallway - once, when Rikkai's former under-15 team assembled for a reunion dinner in Yukimura's kitchen, Sanada had been the last to arrive; Yukimura had stepped out of the hallway to greet him with a cheerful, "Welcome home, honey!" 

He'd had to apologize to Jackal, who had been drinking Coke at that moment, and also to Kirihara and Yagyuu who had been standing in front of Jackal at that moment, but Yukimura seemed to think it had been worth it, just to see the look on Sanada's face. It was the one silly thing Sanada ever saw him do, and even then he had done it with such grace. And it hadn't been much of an interval between Yukimura's greeting and Jackal's spray of Coke, but for that brief space of time, Sanada had actually wanted to reply. There is no repeat performance this time, though, and Sanada isn't the sort to sit and wait. He peers into the hallway; a stripe of pale light runs across the carpet, pointing a sly finger at the crack between a door and its sill. 

"Oi, Ichi.." 

Silence, but this is of a kind that weighs heavily on your heart, almost gloating because it knows it will not be broken. Sanada storms down the hallway and hauls the screen door aside. Water slops over the side of a bathtub; he sees black waves of hair floating around a sleeping face, long and thin arms like willow boughs, slick highlights of wet knuckles, bone and skin so translucent that light seems to shine straight through it. For a few brief seconds, Yukimura's silent flesh has the smooth, fragile quality of porcelain, and Sanada cannot bring himself to move, half afraid that the smallest disturbance might destroy his friend. He doesn't know what to do. A flutter passes over Yukimura's eyes, but a long time seems to pass before he blinks them open; his water-logged hair seems to be making it difficult for him to lift his delicate head. He stares at Sanada for a long time. There is no recognition in his face; his body seems to be as soulless as any other beautiful doll. 

"Get you a towel," Sanada says, abruptly, and straight as a soldier he turns and leaves. 

Of course, he doesn't know where to find a towel, and he knows that Yukimura is aware of this. But it would take far too long to say, "I'll pretend to go look for a towel so you have a chance to snap out of this on your own, and you'd better." Yukimura will understand. Sure enough, while he is going through a chest of drawers in Yukimura's bedroom, the bathroom door slides open and he hears the shuffle of feet coming down the hallway. He looks up; Yukimura stands in the doorway, shivering. Water is still streaming down his skin. 

"Second drawer from the bottom," he says. 

Sanada grunts, tugs the drawer open and pulls out a towel. For a moment he considers the towel in his hands, and looks as if he is going to throw it to Yukimura, but changes his mind and walks across the room instead to put the towel around Yukimura's shoulders. The colour glowing off Yukimura's skin is so surreal, it comes as a surprise for Sanada to feel that he is actually something real, and the towel does not fall through him to the floor. 

"You ought to bring a towel to the bathroom with you," Sanada says. 

"I did." 

He doesn't even try to dry himself off, is still cold; Sanada can feel him shaking even though they are now standing apart, one's hand no longer on the other's shoulder. "What happened to it?" he asks. 

"You said you were getting me another one." 

Water drips onto Sanada's feet, drops shudder on the tips of wet hair. An explosive sigh from Sanada; then he picks up the ends of the towel and starts patting Yukimura dry without a fuss. "Don't tell anyone," he warns Yukimura, hearing the other boy giggle, but his voice is not as gruff as its words, he can feel himself relaxing at the sound of Yukimura's laughter. "I _know_ you're not ticklish. What is it?" 

"I feel like Aka-chan," Yukimura says. "The time when he did so much punishment duty and got so tired, he fell asleep in the showers and flooded the locker room." 

"You're nothing like Akaya." 

"You carried him out, got him dry and dressed, and then you sent him home," Yukimura said. "It was what I wanted to, but I couldn't. How do you punish someone if you're going to take care of them afterwards? It's like going back on your word. Such a weak thing to do." 

"Can't be strong all the time," Sanada mutters. 

"I'm glad you were there to take care of him," Yukimura says. He seems to be somewhere else, as though he is speaking through a glass, cannot see the face he is speaking to. "Because it feels like someone _should_. He's the sort of person you want to take care of. You can feel he needs it. See it in his face, the way he acts.. He's not very strong, for all the biting and snapping. I still feel like he looks up to us, like we're still expected to take care of him. Do you get that feeling?" 

"No," Sanada says, bluntly. "I'm not his vice-captain any more. He can dry himself." 

"What a pity. You know, I used to wish I was Akaya, sometimes. Have everyone taking care of me for once, and not expecting me to be strong, and letting me lean on them a little bit. It's.. shameful. I wish it didn't happen. But sometimes it just overwhelms me, and I just switch off.." 

Sanada doesn't answer. He's starting to feel uncomfortable; it's one thing to take care of Akaya, a petulant child whom everyone still calls 'The Infant', and another thing altogether when it's someone like Yukimura, possessed of an unsettling beauty that draws your eyes and makes your heart ache even as you realise it's not your place to find him beautiful. He starts when he finds that he's stooping down, Yukimura's ribs cutting deep grooves of shadow level with his eyes; he stands up, drapes the towel around Yukimura again. 

"Maybe it's not there all the time, but your strength is one of the most amazing things about you," he says. "_I_ don't expect it. It surprises me every day when I compare what you look like with who you are, and what you've done. Tell you a secret.. Big monkey like me, you'd expect _me_ to be strong, but sometimes I only get by because I think, well, Ichi can manage, I'd better be able to." He scratches at the tip of his baseball cap, looking away, breaking off his speech as unceremoniously as he began it. "So, begging you," he adds, "don't feel that way about it. If you fell like you want someone to take care of you, just say so. You know you can tell me anything.." 

He steals a look at Yukimura's downcast face, becomes unable to take his eyes away when he sees the long brown eyes looking up at him. A layer of distance has dropped from them, and the person who is Yukimura, previously something as distant and intangible as a beautiful song in a dream, becomes earthly, assumes a shape that Sanada feels he can actually reach out and touch for the first time. But his code of conduct is so strict and rigid, he cannot bring himself to lift his hand. Yukimura sees him, perhaps knows this; there is the flutter of a smile across his mouth, and then suddenly he raises his head, Sanada feels a touch of soft lips on his cheek. Yukimura's eyelashes brush his skin, a flat cheek laid warm against his for a moment before it pulls away; long fingers stroke the curve of Sanada's lips and jaw, Yukimura's face looking as if he wishes it were his mouth and not his hand which travelled there. Sanada wonders why that isn't so. He leans down, lays his head in the hollow between Yukimura's shoulder and neck, breathes in the fresh smell of soap, warm smell of skin. Starts to mark the smooth curve of bare neck with his mouth, feels Yukimura's fingers taking his cap off, soft breath puffing into his hair, beautiful noises stirring from Yukimura's narrow throat and easing out through the prettiest pair of parted lips Sanada has ever seen. Thin knees buckle, and Sanada almost panics, tightens his arms around Yukimura, so close he can feel Yukimura's heart beating directly against his own. "_Buchou_," Sanada says, so low it almost passes for another growl, "I'm going to put you on the bed.." 

Yukimura's eyes, shut, slide open. 

"How's your girlfriend, Sanada?" he asks, quietly. His smile is sincere, and sad. 

Sanada can't think of anything to say for a while, then he answers: "She's fine." 

"She's a great girl." 

"Yeah," Sanada says, "kinda like yours." 

"You love her, don't you?" 

"Yes.." 

"I think it's changed you a little. Sometimes when I see you, I think, the old Sanada I used to know is gone.. But then you come over for dinner, and nothing is different." 

"You're the same," Sanada says. "Known you for bloody ages. Maybe a bit taller now but the way you treat me, it's still the same." 

The rhythm of Yukimura's heart is an uneven thing, beating to some madcap fancy of its own. Sanada puts his hand over Yukimura's heart, hoping to find a regular pattern, some kind of answer - but there is none to be found. Yukimura's hand, as though wandering in search of something, comes across Sanada's, rests upon it. Heartbeat settles, cool fingers warm. Sanada can feel Yukimura's chin moving against his forehead as the other boy says, "And you act the same as you always have, too.. So it isn't anything like love, is it? What's this called, do you think?" 

Sanada shrugs. He swears he can feel Yukimura's strength flowing through the frail structure of that narrow hand, overwhelming his own, tougher flesh, dissolving all the doubts and fears of the unknown tomorrow. What does it matter what it's called? He's never trusted words, never really needed labels. Something solid to hold on to, and he's happy. A handle, a key, a warm hand, a gift from an old friend. They're being selfish, most likely foolish; maybe they'll regret this later, but it is feels so important to remain like this, now. 

"Where's your other hand?" he asks. "Give it here. I'll take care of it. Promise." 

* * *

edit: the 'ichi, ni' nicknames come from a random moment when I realised it was yukimura sei'ICHI' and sanada ge'NI'chirou. my bad! 


End file.
